


Midsummer's Gift Horse

by Sevent



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Child Death, M/M, Midsummer, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Superstition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25204867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevent/pseuds/Sevent
Summary: Jaskier is nine when he meets a witcher, when a monster attacks his family's caravan. It is on midsummer's eve. In the aftermath, the witcher gives his mare to Jaskier's father, to keep them safe.Years later,  Jaskier meets a witcher. He still has that horse.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 41
Kudos: 513
Collections: Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang





	Midsummer's Gift Horse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang. 
> 
> My deepest thanks to [myrtlewilson](https://myrtlewilson.tumblr.com) for beta reading, [purplelamaart](https://purplelamaart.tumblr.com) for the beautiful, beautiful fanart, and to the Mini Bang moderators for creating this event!
> 
> I ramble on too much with this one but aaah enjoy??!!!

Witchers, rare as they are to come across in the northern expanse of the Continent, star in the most popular of tavern stories. Frightening warriors, the lot — much like sorcerers and devils. 

They exist on a plane separated from humans and yet they are intrinsically involved in the world and all its people — human, non-human, monster, with other witchers — in their caste-given duty to keep order. 

Few men and women ever get to meet one, and those who do haven’t a good reason for it. It is no wonder they make for an excellent topic to discuss over a round of stale beer. Almost every tavern will hear of a true story involving a _witchman,_ stories full of terror and bloodcurdling details, to warn people of the evils that walk the earth and that to kill monsters, you _need_ a greater, smarter monster. 

Ordinary folk have no business dealing with witchers, though sometimes they have no choice. Too many odd deaths in the winter. Crops fail. Dark omens flash in the twilight hour sky. A shadow lurks outside the window of the alderman’s home and his maiden daughter disappears come morning. 

That is work for witchers, witches and druids. Freaks to handle the freakish, they say. 

Running into a witcher, that is an ill omen, too. But running into witchers many times? That becomes _more_ than an omen. More a curse, or a blot on the soul. Nothing good will come from attracting the weird and unnatural to oneself. 

If circumstance allows it, that blot must be cured to prevent misfortunate events with the help of a herbalist or a healer, as they have the proper means to act on — wolfsbane woven into a fresh set of linen clothes, to ward against physical threats — flower of the fern, to clear a youth’s mind suffering bad spells. If all else fails, a barefoot prayer dance over hot coals will burn the ill spirits stuck to one’s heels.

The best time to do such rites is during Midaëte — midsummer’s eve, as the elves once did in preparation of winter and its long, dark nights. But a witcher can’t do such rites. 

So say the old sages, anyway.

Jaskier is nine when he meets his first witcher. 

Just before Midaëte, as was customary, his father rounded up the family to ride together through the Redanian countryside. Back then, the old Pankratz brothers were a close-knit bunch. Each man boasted of a colorful carriage for his wife and children. It was the height of travelling luxury, an expense few could afford, but the Pankratz loved flair and attention and besides: it was Midaëte. Onlookers pointed at their carriages in amusement, not disdain.

Every town pulsed with music and dance. Celebrations grew more fervent as midsummer’s eve approached. Jaskier was too young then to remember the last midsummer gatherings at the old summer home, so the excitement that bubbled through his frame was genuine when he’d heard there would be a big bonfire night. He loved bonfires. 

Midsummer heat inside a carriage was, however, intolerable for a child of nine years. To relieve his little anxieties, his parents allowed him to walk alongside their carriage, so long as he didn’t wander too far ahead or lingered too far back. His closest cousins would join him at times, to toss rocks into the bushes and scare foxes and rabbits away from the horses. 

Sometimes they brandished sticks as swords and played knight. Then, when the sun hovered high above their heads like the bright, glowing forge of a blacksmith, they’d run wild from his mother’s and uncle’s warning calls to stay close, as children often did.

And then a webbed-winged monster swept down from the sky and snatched his oldest cousin up in its beak. 

He never saw it happen. Never heard a monstrous screech or even a warning gargle. But he did hear crying — and screaming — and a strange flapping sound, like gust winds trapped in a sail. The carriages were behind him, and the glare of the sun made him shield his eyes, unknowingly, his feet bringing him forward to shade.

He’d been so consumed by a new game of make-believe to have realized those screams were of terror and not from a tantrum. The horses kicking up a dust storm was what finally got this attention to see the shadow of a huge creature flying higher and higher into the treetops with his cousin in its mouth. 

The beast would come back twice more, to peck at his parents’ carriage. Everyone started screaming in panic, shouting _‘basilisk,’_ calling his and his cousins’ names frantically. They had no swordhands, just the drivers who carried whips and long swatters for weapons. 

The whips only made the basilisk angry and startled most of the horses into fleeing. Riderless, none of them could even run out and escape. No one could seek help or save their skin.

Another of his cousins, young Sedrick — three years older, but still a little lanky with knobby knees — was swept up and tossed into the woods, his screaming falling away to an echo until it abruptly cut off. 

Jaskier watched it happen in shock, helpless. _Crying,_ his throat tight and quiet. 

He stood exposed on the roadside, too scared to move. He was just a boy. So small compared to everyone. Maybe because of his size, the monster took no interest in him. He could only stare at the horror unraveling before him. His innocent mind struggled to understand it all, the why, the how.

And then a man with two swords strapped upon his back reared up the road at breakneck speed. The horse he rode on nickered in complaint at being thrust into a gallop, and soon the man passed their wrecked carriage with a quick shout to keep the children close. At the sound of an inhuman chitter-growl and flapping wings, he unsheathed his sword and disappeared into the woods, chasing after the fleeing monster. 

Jaskier — then a boy answering to Julian — held his elbows firm, frozen in terror at how swiftly death struck. At how easily and unexpectedly life could turn on its axis. But he knew, somehow, that the man they crossed paths with was a witcher. 

Only a witcher would go after a huge beast without fear. Witchers _felt_ no fear. That and a great many other things, was what he knew.

His mother cried when he finally wobbled closer, both of them a tearstained pair afraid that the basilisk would return for seconds. They worried for naught. The only thing that surged out of the woods again was the witcher with a chunk of the basilisk’s wing, the scales charred at the tips. 

The witcher told his parents and his uncles plainly that they should head back the road from whence they came and rest at the next inn available until he destroyed the beast’s nest, in case it had a mate or a child old enough to hunt. 

Jaskier remembered that moment clearly into adulthood. Because the witcher, unlike every story Jaskier knew about them at that tender age — which, admittedly, was not much beyond fright tales — did not ask for payment for having rid them of the immediate threat. 

The witcher didn’t wish them condolences. But he also didn’t take anything more than the basilisk already tore up. The witcher simply offered a strong suggestion for their benefit and their wellbeing.

They did as the witcher said, leaving the broken and horseless carriages but taking their most important possessions. Jaskier forgot for a second that a couple of his cousins were no longer with them in life. He almost called their names out of habit. 

Just as he was about to wail pitifully with overwhelming grief, strong hands lifted him up onto a horse to be supported by his father’s back. It had been the witcher, and the mare his own, a token to get them back safely and swiftly, to call for help. Said she could sniff trouble a mile away, and that she was a little tough to make friends with, but trustworthy. Then the witcher went back down the road on foot, presumably to follow the trail the basilisk left to its nest. 

That was Jaskier’s first meeting with a witcher. In a tragedy. Terrible as first meetings could possibly go. A damning impression.

Through the reins gripped in his father’s arms, Jaskier craned his neck to see the witcher’s retreating back. 

He’d never met anyone with hair that white in his life. It shone like crystalline water under the midsummer noon sun. Like a fairy, or an elf. Jaskier wanted to remember it. To remember the hero witcher.

Weeks later, when their grim caravan finally arrived at the Pankratz home, news of a witcher going rogue and killing people in the streets of Blaviken spread amongst the servants and the weary adults. Jaskier remembers that with clarity too. They’d been coming down from Blaviken to the coastal cities after all, though they never stopped at the town.

They’d said a white-haired witcher was responsible for the massacre, but that couldn’t be right. The Butcher could not have been the same witcher they’d met. Heroes weren’t butchers. They saved lives — they didn’t take them.

The news troubled him, combined with the unexpected funerals — not just for his cousins, but old Uncle Rodrik whose heart gave out from sorrow. For a week, he asked his parents perhaps a bit too persistently on the story, when they were busy mourning for so many.

Being a child, he was spared many conversations. Instead they would pat his head and say vague things like, “Such is the way of the world, where cruelty and goodness live hand in hand.” 

Though maybe he’s misremembering that part, having added poetic flare to the memory with the passing years. It’s a bit too sagely for his father’s taste. Most likely he just said something along the lines of, “Bad things happen that we cannot explain.”

But like all children eventually do, young Jaskier moved on and found other things to occupy himself with. Finally grieving. Returning to a hard education.

He didn’t forget. He simply pushed monsters and witchers to the back of his mind. 

Since that ill-fated day, Jaskier had spent every eve of Midaëte in some inexplicable situation begetting discomfort.

Once, he ran out of funds drinking himself stupid while studying in Oxenfurt, and as a result spent an uncomfortable month busking for bread and beer at bars, waiting on the university’s reprieve. Twice his performance venue had been filled by other musicians and so he’d been forced to spend the midsummer fete on the sidelines getting swept into new and totally unplanned affairs, each one more scandalous than the last.

So he knows with certainty that midsummer is not his day, not his time of the year to celebrate. Misfortune doesn’t befall him too often, nor too terribly — at least not as terribly as that day nine years of age — but he’d rather avoid whatever curse seems to have stuck to his skin. Let himself hide away in a rented hole, sleeping the annual midsummer day away. It is only smart.

And then he meets a witcher, and all his smarts go flying out the window to follow one Geralt of Rivia down a path destined for trouble.

It is only to be expected, since it happens in midsummer’s eve.

What is it they say about witchers? That they’re bad omens in and of themselves?

Jaskier wouldn’t call Geralt an omen. 

He would call him beautiful.

Hair white like crystalline water under the midsummer noon sun. Like a fairy. A reticent, broody fairy with two swords strapped onto his back. That is Geralt of Rivia.

As a bard by trade Jaskier _is_ a poetic fop, though not fool enough to think fate or destiny or what not have finally granted him a boon after all these years. But, he spends a good few contemplative seconds connecting the dots, reconciling the image of the witcher sitting aloof at the table before him with the one in his spotty and overdramatic memory.

Because, really, witchers are a rare breed of men. It was not at all unreasonable to think there could be a number of them with unnaturally white hair to match their molten forge-iron eyes. Not unreasonable at all, despite only ever hearing about one such white-haired witcher, ever. That is, of the Butcher.

“I know who you are,” Jaskier tells the witcher straight up the first time they speak to each other. 

Geralt proves him wrong. He does not in actuality _know who he is,_ because he is not a mindless killer — he’s not even a _heartless_ killer, by the intensity of his anger and by the empathy he shows the elves at the edge of the world.

He is a witcher, true. And _that_ interests Jaskier very much to make sense of better — of witchers, butchers, cruel men who do good deeds. 

In that tavern in Posada, Geralt of Rivia doesn’t recognize him.

Unsurprising, Jaskier was a short little scamp barely growing into his shoes when they first met. That meeting, momentous as it was for him, might be commonplace to a witcher. How many dozens or hundreds of contracts has he taken in his doubtlessly long life? How many human lives saved or lost, monsters hunted or spared? Jaskier is not special. 

Except for one regard. A gift mare.

Jaskier still rides that old witcher’s horse. She’s not old at all, actually, which is why Jaskier trusts her to carry him from town to town, usually only in the region of Redania where he can rope her back to the old summer Pankratz home to be taken care of till his eventual, unannounced return.

After Posada, when they cross paths again but in old foggy Redania, Geralt calls for his Roach. Two mares twitch their ears to attention. 

One shakes her head while the other whinnies and stamps one hoof. Their matching mousy eyes stare intently at the mention of the name.

Jaskier has a good laugh about it while Geralt puzzles over what it means that they’ve got same-named horses.

“Where did you get that horse?” 

“A witcher gave her to me,” Jaskier confesses in a low voice, humor fading quickly from his voice. The story of the basilisk is not one he wants to tell anyone out of necessity, and it is not one he has ever brought up outside of family matters. It makes him anxious to remember the details — _gust wind wings, his cousins' falling voices_ — but for Geralt, he can steel himself. _He_ was there too.

He watches Geralt, seeing how the light plays off his yellow eyes as a decade old memory runs its course. “A witcher...”

“Yes. Well, she wasn't given to _me,_ I should say. I was too young at the time to ride by myself." Jaskier pats his mare's neck, taking a deep breath of thick air. The fog is clearing. _His_ mind is clearing from its nervous entangled thoughts. 

"You see," Jaskier goes on to explain, "In the wake of a monster attack, he was given to my father, and he to me when it became apparent that I wanted to see the world for myself. An obstinate lady, she is, but I trust her with my life." The mare flicks her ears back at 'lady', as if listening. It makes Jaskier smile. "I think, now, I understand how difficult it must have been for a witcher to part with their horse, especially for nothing in return, as was in my father’s case. It’s why I don’t believe that racket people make about witchers only ever wanting coin. Folk should be so lucky as to meet one — but not as unlucky as to _need_ one. Then again, if there was no need for witchers, you would be out of the job, and that’s not something I would wish on you either.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything in return, but not in that way that means he’s doing his best to ignore the bard’s nattering. 

It’s the kind of quiet that’s maybe overthinking something simple. Simple to Jaskier, which is how he is ever grateful and so lucky to have met Geralt in his time of need, and to have found him again. Makes the world feel small.

“This witcher,” Geralt finally cuts through the silence, dragging Jaskier out of his reverie. “Do you remember him well?”

At that, Jaskier grins. “Oh, dunno. Bit difficult to forget a witcher, even if I’d rather not remember the circumstance surrounding it.”

“Did you…seek him out?”

“Not really." It strikes him then, how Jaskier never even thought about doing that. "Funny, that. Here _we_ are now.”

They leave it at that as they guide the mares down the dirt road and across a blooming field of white myrtles. 

It’s peaceful. He could almost smell the burning scents of every town along the countryside lighting up wooden pits for midsummer’s eve.

“Say Geralt,” Jaskier pipes up with downcast eyes, watching the blooms twirl. “Do you know why a witcher would give his horse away like that?”

Geralt is looking out into the field too so Jaskier can’t judge his expression. “You never know when bandits will take advantage of misfortune. It might have been a dangerous road, or a long walk on foot. A witcher’s horse doesn’t tire or spook easily.”

“Well, it was selfless of him. I would like to thank him.”

“He didn’t do it to receive thanks.” Geralt turns to him then, jaw clenched. “But, I can’t speak for all witchers. Not all of us follow the same set of codes.”

Somehow, they’ve gone and danced around the topic. It’s ridiculous because Jaskier knows that Geralt knows they mean _him,_ _he_ is the witcher in question. Of course he is. So he _can_ speak, for himself.

Jaskier shakes his head wondering if it’s easier for Geralt to talk about himself as if he’s a stranger to be puzzled over. Gratitude and praise are not things often granted to witchers, and they rarely encounter the same people twice to hear it. In that, Jaskier _is_ special. He has met Geralt three times now, followed him against all human instinct for self-preservation. 

That it happened on the eve of one Midaëte, him eighteen years of age, almost felt like breaking a curse. That it is almost Midaëte again, and a year since they came upon the refugee elves of the Valley of Flowers, cannot go uncelebrated, no matter his personal experiences on the eve’s fete.

“Let’s forget it for now. It’s midsummer and everyone and their mother are cooking up a feast to feed a whole barn. What say we head down the valley?” Jaskier spurs his mare forward, waving at the fork in the road. “I’m in the mood for a nice bonfire. You?”

It turns out the village down the valley has a problem with a troll. Just what a witcher needs to unwind. And while that’s going on, Jaskier lounges in their rented rooms honestly contemplating dipping his feet in the river when Geralt returns, everything below his waist covered by a slimy film. 

How Geralt keeps getting himself covered in mud and gore, he’ll never understand. But it’s not in his hair, so of course Geralt doesn’t complain, which means _Jaskier_ has to complain for him. He pesters the witcher to dive into the stream that runs behind the inn, regardless of what people will say. He got rid of their troll — they cannot fuss about what the witcher does in his free time.

Being midsummer means a sweltering indoor heat that demands a cold bath — and sure, the river’s free, but not worth the slippery moss and the bug bites. The one available at their inn is worthy of even a picky aristocrat. Really, the bath is a wide masterpiece carved from dark wood, a beauty hidden in a no-name town. It’s perfect for them to share in a pinch. 

Not that they’ve been low on coin lately. Quite the opposite as of thirty minutes ago. But it’s always better to save for a rainy day than to empty their purses for a rare commodity.

With the bath comes the by-now expected tousle with Geralt’s sense of needs and responsibilities. The bath is a small luxury, and a witcher so used to being run out of town and sooner spat on than have his back washed will always shun the pleasantry. It is why Jaskier insists on one. They say exposure builds tolerance; in Geralt’s case, it might build begrudging acceptance for the nicer things in life.

And seeing as they’ve shared baths before, it is easier to convince the witcher of the necessity. Jaskier need only say four words, “It’s bloody hot out,” before Geralt grunts something in agreement and dumps himself into the clean water.

They have a good row fighting for the slippery soap. Jaskier loses because the only callouses on his hands are on the pads of his fingers against Geralt’s rough, battle-worn hands. He retaliates by splashing water everywhere, which starts _another_ row, this time to see who can get whom the most uselessly, frustratingly wet and waste the good water.

It’s when Geralt starts laughing at the state of Jaskier’s sodden hair that Jaskier quiets down over the lip of the tub, arms crossed.

It’s a rare thing, his laugh. Makes Jaskier want to stop everything and listen. He wants to find the right words to describe how it sounds, to write it down somewhere, not meant for a ballad, but for himself. 

A washcloth flops onto his shoulder in the next second and he almost shoots out of the bath, startled.

“Aren’t you quiet for once. Didn’t think you were capable of it.” 

The witcher’s sat settled opposite of him, eyebrows raised. Jaskier huffs, grabbing the cloth to at least pretend to use it when all he wants to do is fidget under that stare. “What do you mean _‘for once’?_ I have my moments!”

“Yeah, but you’re a mumbler. Even when you’re trying to be quiet you make noise.”

In absolute spiteful fashion, for five minutes, Jaskier _doesn’t_ mumble. His lips pinch and wiggle as if ready to form words, but he’s not about to let a single sound through. 

Besides, it’s a bit embarrassing to admit what distracted him. What is he supposed to say? _‘Your laughter is a treasure I wish to bottle and age for years and years in the wine cellars of my mind’_?

“If you must know,” Jaskier starts, forcibly shoving his besotten thoughts away before he confesses something infinitely more embarrassing, “I was thinking to myself… I was just thinking that, that—”

“Thinking? Another thing I didn’t think you capable of—”

“Put the sarcasm away before I smack you with this!” The thing in question is a very soapy rag, a threat of the lowest consequence. “I’d — ah, remembered another thing that’s bothered me for years, alright? You’ve a certain reputation — infamy, I should say. I am well-acquainted with your latest contracts and the odd rescue. Been there for a few of them too, and thank you for the pleasure. Helped me work wonders on your image. But, uh, the past remains in people’s minds. As much as you’re called the White Wolf, plenty more know you for the Butcher of Blaviken. What happened for you to be called that?”

He'd scrambled to save his fluttering heartbeat from being discovered, but he hides behind no lies. The Butcher _does_ still bother him, ten years after the fact. Considering their recent talk, now is as good a time to ask, he thinks. 

Jaskier used to wonder, sometimes — what is it that turns a witcher into a killer? What makes them different from the monsters they hunt? Most people wouldn’t care for an answer. A witcher is a witcher, which is a step above a monster. And not by much.

It’s a sore subject by the deep frown that forms in Geralt’s face.

“You know what happened.”

“No. I know the story. I don’t actually _know_ what happened.”

The stunt with the elves had humbled the bard to understand the distinction between _knowing_ and _hearing._ It is why he values the weight of the words in his songs. He doesn’t always tell the truth, just close enough to it that people get the symbolism behind the tale and hear the lesson he wants to give. The elves die in his songs because it is better that they die than live and suffer human hatred. The witcher needs a villain, too, to be elevated to a hero. 

Every epic tale is a lie told for someone’s benefit. So he needs to know the truth behind the lie to rewrite it, for Geralt’s benefit. 

“What’s the story behind the Butcher? Your words, not the ones people whisper between themselves over frothing mugs of ale.”

The water’s turned lukewarm by now, and there is no use dallying in bath water any longer. Despite that, they linger. Jaskier draws his knees up to his chest and rests a cheek on the top of one to listen as, after a moment of silence, Geralt begins to talk. Haltingly, at first, but slowly. 

Geralt tells him the story of a young woman named Renfri. 

The sun sets on Midaëte’s eve. Smoke rises in the field to the east. People play to a song older than the town’s eldest sage. The lyrics are curious and strange, no doubt altered by the course of time. They tell of bygone traditions and gods that Jaskier doesn’t recognize by name. But those details aren’t important. Not to the good people of the valley.

Small fires lead pockets of crowds through the townsquare down to a grassy wide open area, where a dozen few kids run around screaming their little heads off. They’re playing at catching invisible fairies. In Jaskier’s youth, it was catching _pixies._ He cannot imagine what it was called in Geralt’s youth, and he doubts the witcher knows either. 

Like many of the townsgoers, they’re dressed in simple outdoor clothes — loose shirts and dark breeches — mostly because of the day’s heat persisting in the evening air. It makes anything more than two layers of clothing unbearable. A few girls take it upon themselves to wreath flowers into Jaskier’s hair, and for that he promises to string up a few festive ballads he learned in Oxenfurt. Though he got them from the tavern drunks and not from inside the classroom. 

There’s food set out in long pushed-together tables. A troubadour trio stands on a handmade podium belching out bawdy tunes. Strips of cloth, stone beads, wooden artifacts, and paper adornments hang connected by stakes around the field.

It’s a splendid show, and yet Jaskier can’t help the feeling of unease bubbling in the pit of his stomach. His lute, unplayed, weighs heavy in its case.

It’s Midaëte. As with every year, he expects something to go wrong. Being with Geralt, he fears something might go wrong with _them._

Of course Geralt notices his nervous two-stepping around the skipping circles of people, never staying for more than a minute or so. Once night blankets the valley, the witcher corners him in the shadow of one of the few unlit bonfires scheduled for midnight.

Geralt’s silhouette makes an imposing figure. With his hair aflame in white-orange like a halo, he almost looks like something out of a dream. And doesn’t _that_ make Jaskier’s heart start beating a little too quick, too suddenly?

“Jaskier. What is it? You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not ‘acting’ anything.” It comes out too defensive, for which Jaskier crinkles his nose. “Sorry. I, you see, I can’t rightly explain it. Nothing’s wrong. Tonight is the most-awaited Midaëte fete. Good tidings and new beginnings all around, as they say.”

“But?”

Geralt holds his wrist down before he can shrug.

 _"But..._ something always goes bad for me. Sort of." This time he does shrug, as the witcher loosens his grip. "Call it bad luck, or the evil eye, or superstition. Can’t say what it is, exactly, just that I end up having a terrible time. You saw how bad once, with a basilisk. And again, with the devil and its elves. The basilisk obviously ranks higher.”

The witcher’s eyes glisten, realizing how odd the timing of things has been. His brows pinch together, and he looks so concerned for the bard’s sake that Jaskier wonders how anyone could ever think him a heartless fiend. He’s _such_ a bleeding heart. 

“Don’t fuss about it, Geralt,” he says, a tad playful, “I’m not that worried with you around.” 

And he isn’t. Not anymore. Geralt fought off his ill luck twice before — they can fight it off together. It soothes the old superstitious fear to nothing. 

Then an elderly woman hobbles over to them and smacks them both on the arm to shoo them away from the bonfire pit else they get burned along with the kindling.

A new crowd, late night youths, rushes past them. Disoriented, but still in Geralt’s grip, they get herded away from the festivity’s centerground. By the time they move to a quieter spot, the folk singing’s reached a new crescendo, but at a distance. Nearly all the fires are lit, save for the biggest pit at the center.

The way tables and fires are organized, they’re actually close to the town’s stables, built on the outskirts to the valley’s side. A few of the horses whinny at the smell of charcoal and ash coming in from the windows. 

Jaskier has the idea of pulling out their mares for a walk of fresh air. Just a short walk, to settle their spirits. And it works wonderfully. The wind blows the smoke in the opposite direction of their walk. They step over cold, used coal and smudged fabric. Signs of tradition celebrated earlier in the day, though Jaskier isn’t sure which one.

“This is a nice break, don’t you think?”

When he glances at Geralt, he’s met with a serious look in the witcher’s eyes. A look Jaskier cannot rightly identify. 

“What now, Geralt? Don’t think we should have let the horses out in the middle of the night? The stablehand’s at the bonfires too. Everyone is.”

He doesn’t expect for Geralt to still be thinking about what he’d said about his previous experiences come this time of the year.

“It’s been a long time since I bothered with being at Midaëte. Witchers aren’t usually welcome for the night, that or we’re preoccupied by a contract. People get brave during summer, thinking it’s time for good change. Time to hire a witcher to slay that old beast that keeps eating precious wildstock.” He shakes his head, hair moving in loose waves. “It’s not bad. Occasionally, I get good coin for it.”

Geralt is leading his mare around a grassy path with long stalks, the bard right beside him. “Yeah. Same here, in a way. Never got to see profit though. Who knows, times are changing—” 

His boots crunch stepping over more coals, and he curses when his mare disagrees with the noise by pulling on the reins. “Easy, easy now, girl. It’s just soot. Come on, you big baby,” he pets her neck fondly, following her lead to dirt and dry mud. Pigheaded. “You’re truly a _Roach_ -like lady, I finally see it.”

Geralt follows him, no longer sporting a severe expression. In fact, he seems to be holding back a chuckle at his expense.

“Come on bard, it’s late, which means it’s almost time for the big fire.”

At midnight, the large crowd grows quiet. Even the children stop everything to watch, tucked inside their parent’s arms, as the town’s eldest carries a long torch from the square to the middle of the festivity. The elder is flanked by two young women adorned in countless wreathes — atop their heads, on their necks, around their shoulders, pedals and leaves cascading to the floor as from trees in autumn.

The moment the torch touches the center bonfire, silence breaks to raucous cheer.

Geralt watches from a short distance, seated on Roach. Jaskier is seated on his own Roach, of sorts, though to him she’s been Thistle for the better part of ten years. He’s hunched over the horn, watching the fire crackle before the illuminated faces of lovestruck youths.

The bonfire is excellently constructed. A group of girls spin expertly to the tune of a gentleman’s flute. Someone else is playing a fiddle to match the rhythm. It’s not very beautiful, but it is full of soul and warmth and everything that makes Midaëte’s eve special. 

Jaskier looks at Geralt's soft-lit face and is once more struck by how wondrous life can be. That in a world so large, he was lucky enough to stumble into Geralt of Rivia, more than once. He could have ignored the white-haired witcher sitting alone at a dusty bar in Posada. It would not have been the first time Jaskier dismissed his gut instinct, but his gut had screamed at the shock of white, at the hint of memory, and curiosity won out. 

Geralt finally turns his eyes and meets his gaze, and Jaskier’s gut jumps at the gold that glitters there from the fire. Oh, his gut screams but for a different reason now.

It urges Jaskier to rear his Roach closer. He can’t quite control the smile that climbs up his cheeks. His lungs fill with air and he wants to fly. He wants to feel the wind through his fingers as he soars to the clouds with a feeling that grows to bursting inside his chest, almost too big to fit alongside his heart. Or maybe it _is_ his heart, in which case the giddy romantic in him couldn’t be happier. The witcher makes him lose his way with words. He tests the bard’s wit with composition.

Under the midsummer full moon, Geralt is shimmering white. Like thread spun from silkworm.

“You’re quiet again, bard. What are you thinking?”

His smile turns meek. “Nothing. I’m composing. Ah, a moment.”

Jaskier brings his lute out from its secure case and strums riding astride, for he spots the girls who wove his wreaths coming over for their promised song. 

Thistle is a stubborn mare. If the road is too rocky, or the grass too muddy, she’ll huff and stiffen like a board until Jaskier eventually dismounts to lead her to better ground. A trip that would normally take three hours becomes five. A day’s ride, two. 

In the time they travel as a pair, the bard sleeps outdoors often — not for a lack of funds, but because Thistle hates any barn or stable that isn’t his family’s and will bite every hand that attempts to feed her. Jaskier actually doesn’t mind her mulish attitude terribly, and as he spends more time with Geralt, he minds the camping less and less. 

Sometimes his dreams are full of dark-winged nightmare creatures, and when he wakes, lost and disoriented, it takes forever for the boy Julian of nine years to disappear and for Jaskier to return with all his confidence. But his dreams have always been kind when Thistle is around. She is good for him. Always been. He’ll endure her moods and her quirks. 

Jaskier doesn’t believe in superstition. In magic, yes. Rather difficult to deny magic when witchers and witches exist and seeing as he gets personally involved in their matters, on occasion. So perhaps Thistle is charmed, or she somehow protects against ill dreams. She was once a witcher’s horse — some would call her _cursed,_ not blessed.

Maybe it’s all coincidence. Whatever the case, the old mare’s earned his affection. And if she confuses Geralt sometimes by responding to her old name, her coat so strikingly similar to his Roach as to make them twins if not for the white pattern on their foreheads, well—

Animals gifted in Midaëte’s eve become hosts for mischievous harvest spirits. 

So say the old sages, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> [Link to the art in tumblr~](https://purplelamaart.tumblr.com/post/623375698999033856/seventfics-geraskiermidsummerminibang-i-posted)


End file.
